


False Things Brought Low

by NyxNuit



Series: Luceat Lux Vestra [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Multi, Sexual Content, chapters individually rated, drabbles in the demon hunter universe, even more of my terrible attempts at humor, more gratuitous music references, not quite a sequel, not really a prequel either
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:46:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19034134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxNuit/pseuds/NyxNuit
Summary: A series of drabbles/snapshots from Victor and Yuuri's lives both before and after the events of Lux in Tenebris.Ratings and tags are subject to change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, while drafting the main chapters of Lux in Tenebris I've also had these little drabbles that I originally used as a creative outlet for the plot bunnies that spawn in the dark cavern that is my tortured noggin and intended to just let them sit on my hard drive and gather digital dust - but, my dear friend Ki-chan, convinced me to share some of these side-stories. I don't know how many of these there will be but each one will be rated individually and the warnings/tags are subject to change as I add more content.
> 
> Rating: G  
> No warnings apply

_October 1987; St. Petersburg_

This was the third time Victor had been dragged to the Dean’s office, but it was the first time that Yakov was thoroughly annoyed with both the staff and his incredibly stubborn ward. The seventeen-year-old looked bored, his lithe slim-hipped body sprawled in his chair and he played with a lock of his long mercurial hair while the Dean of Students continued to go on a rant about policy, ‘respecting boundaries and one’s peers’, and culpability.

“Professor Schwartz,” Yakov interrupted, “why is Mr. Nikiforov still in the beginner’s class? Last we spoke, you assured us he’d be transferred within the first week of the semester, and yet, six weeks in he’s still with the novices. Why?”

Lilia wouldn’t be pleased at all to hear about this. The two of them would have to talk to the Academic Governing Board to discuss the Dean’s reliability when it came to the education and safety of the other students.

“All students enrolled in the Program are –“ the teacher standing behind the desk (who’d been present during the incident) speaks up instead. Yakov levels him with a quelling look.

“I don’t believe I was speaking to you,” Yakov said, and redirected his gaze to the Dean, “Well?”

“As Mr. Hallada was about to say, all students enrolled in the Exorcist Bridge Program are required to take the novice course to gauge their skill level,” the Dean said.

While the Dean could argue that Victor was academically behind all the other students enrolled in the Exorcist Program, Yakov could effectively rebut that Victor is technically and physically superior when it comes to live combat.  Yakov _really_ wished that Lilia had had time to take care of this today. This whole matter would have been resolved the moment she gave them her patented Bitch Brow ™. When he’d gotten the phone call, his patience had already been stretched to its thinnest and now? Well, now he was fresh out of patience. He knew Victor was being targeted because of his name and his family, and it only made sense that something like this would happen. Nikiforov or not, Yakov refused to tolerate any level of discrimination.  

“Were his exam results not clear enough about his skill level?” Yakov asked, executing what he hoped was an accurate imitation of his wife’s dangerous calm. The Dean cleared his throat and looked quite uncomfortable at the reminder that Victor had already taken the Standard Profiency Assessment. And passed it. With flying colors. His score had been record-breaking, especially given his age and the age of the other examinees.

“You must understand,” the Dean continued, “it’s school policy-“

“He’s taken the course,” Yakov snapped, “His scores indicate he’s eligible for a higher level. And while I regret that another student got hurt in the process, he’s demonstrated his proficiency. If you had kept your word in the beginning, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and a student would not be in the hospital. You are just as much to blame here as Victor.”

An ugly mottled flush appears on the Dean’s face, starting on his plump cheeks and spreading underneath the fine ash gray hairs of his magnanimous whiskers.

“Mr. Feltsman you’re out of line-” Hallada began.

“And you,” Yakov rounded on him, immediately the old Exorcist balked at the display of righteous anger, “you should not be teaching a class on combat if you do not have the capability of physically stepping in when a spar gets out of control. You let blood be drawn, you are to blame as well.” Hallada had the decency to at least look cowed. Yakov glared at the two men who were supposed to be esteemed staff members of Gorynych Academy. He came here expecting a dignified conversation and a meting out of Victor’s punishment, not to lecture two grown men. “You _will_ transfer him into the advanced class, effective immediately,” he said, “And Victor will serve his punishment as policy dictates.”

The Dean swallowed, “A week’s suspension, and a month’s probation where he’ll be prohibited from participating in off-campus events, during which if he incurs another infraction he will face expulsion.”

“Fine,” Yakov said and stood, gathering his hat and his coat, “Now, if we’re quite done here, I have to get back to work. Come, Vitya.”

Victor sighed and stood, obediently following Yakov out of the office. Neither of them say a single word all the way back to the lobby where a ring of Transportation Circles takes up the majority of the floor. There was nobody at reception and the entire administration building was dead silent.

“You’re not going to ask why I did it?” Victor said lightly, standing with his toes just gracing the edge of a Circle and his head cocked slightly to the side. His blue eyes are searching; too sharp and analytical for his young face.

“Why? Was it unprovoked?” Yakov raised an eyebrow. Victor sucked at his teeth.

“No,” he said. Yakov feels his eyebrow twitch, betraying his surprise.

Victor’s always maintained an aura of invulnerability with a disturbing amount of emotional control – unflappable, carefree, lackadaisical, and a little arrogant. He was a Nikiforov. If he wanted, he could disappear from this place and nobody would notice until he was on the other side of the continent. But there was none of that devious little smirk or (not so) quietly smug satisfaction that Yakov was most used to seeing on the young Warlock’s face.

“Then that’s it then,” Yakov said, “Let’s go. I have paperwork piling up as we speak.”

Victor stepped into the circle without another word, and the matrix underneath their feet glowed white. When the light faded, they were standing in the HUNTER Department’s main offices.

“I’m sure you can get yourself home from here,” Yakov said, “Lilia and I will be along when we’ve finished up here.”

Victor maintained that tiny fake smile even when the Circle activated, and he disappeared in a brief flash of light. Yakov watched him go before turning to glare at the Exorcists who’d paused to watch. He schleps to his office with his scowl firmly affixed; he hangs up his coat and his hat before going to pay his wife a visit. The double-doors to her office are firmly closed and he raps sharply with his knuckles before going inside.

She’s resplendent in a formal navy pantsuit and sitting at her desk with her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her proud European nose. The silver watch he gifted to her as a wedding present sits on her wrist to complement the minimalistic diamond studs in her ears. Her office is immaculate despite the piles of paperwork, while Yakov’s office more accurately represents the chaos of running this department. 

“The matter is settled then?” Lilia said, barely glancing up from the open case file on her desk.

“He’s suspended for a week,” Yakov told her and took a seat on the opposite side of the desk, “and subject to a month’s probation.”

“Hm,” Lilia muttered, closing the file and opening another. 

“He was still in the novice class,” Yakov says and her pen stops, “The student he was sparring with got injured. Two broken ribs, a compound fracture in his arm, a broken nose, _and_  there's no guarantee he'll be able to walk properly once he's released from the hospital.”

Lilia sat up and her painted lips were pursed in displeasure, “Well, I certainly hope that whatever it was, Victor got his point across.”

“The Governing Board will have to be informed if they haven’t been already,” Yakov said. Lilia let out a scoff.

“Of course, they know,” she said, “The moment Victor was enrolled the Dean would have reported every possible infraction to the Russian Superintendent.” Victor’s truancy, his constant sassing of the faculty, and now…this.

“They might crucify him for this,” Yakov said, “He’s not expelled because Schwartz and the teacher present are both partially responsible for the circumstances leading up to the incident.”

“They can’t,” Lilia said, “even if they wanted to. They risk the wrath of the Nikiforov clan if they do.”

Of course, no one but the two of them and Victor knows that Victor’s family won’t be coming for him at all. And while Yakov knows that no one would dare to physically bully Victor, he suspects that the teenager is being subjected to social isolation from his age peers.

“Word will reach the Agency,” Yakov grumbled, “his recruitment will be denounced.”

“They’ve denounced him from the very beginning, Yakov,” Lilia said, her pen starting to move again, “Loyalty will be his currency, instead of skill. The best we can do is teach him that.”

“He’s not keen on learning,” Yakov replied, “his track record so far has proved that much.”

“He will learn,” Lilia says tersely, “or he’ll end up right back where I found him.”

He fetches himself a cup of coffee in the break room on the way back to his office and sips at the bitter drink when he takes a seat behind his desk.

Sometimes he still can’t believe he agreed to this.

He loves his wife and he’s been making an effort to be more supportive as of late (per Minako’s suggestion) but damn if this isn’t trying his patience. He’d never expected to be living with a teenager – and a teenager with a lifetime’s worth of baggage at that.

Yakov sets down his coffee and rubs his temples, attempting to relieve his stubborn headache. Why can’t things ever be simple?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: T  
> Warnings: swearing (duh), and bees

_June 1999; Louisiana_

It was suspicious from the get-go. Yuuri had seen enough horror movies, had read enough novels where a rickety old house in the middle of nowhere was an immediate nope. Even from here it _looked_ haunted. He exchanged a look with Foster and the vampire looked just as reluctant to go inside as him.

“We sure got the short end of the stick, huh, Katsuki?” Foster muttered, waving a few mosquitoes out of his face.

“Really short,” Yuuri agreed.

Really, it was probably a better option than hanging out with the large swarms of mosquitos while bog-diving for corpses and other evidence, but in all honesty, Yuuri would rather be doing that than locking himself in a creepy house that probably had all sorts of malignant spirits inside.

Urgh. _No_ thank you.

He lets Foster lead the way since the little vampire is objectively the better fighter.

Broken patches of wan sunlight filter through where some of the wood making up the walls has split and been reclaimed by the bayou, but not enough to completely dissipate the heavy gloom inside.

“ _Lucerna_ ,” Yuuri murmurs, light coalescing in his palm until he has a sizable enough orb and he lets it float autonomously above his head, and Foster immediately lets out a little shriek when he sees the gigantic spiderweb he almost walked straight into.

“Foster? Yuuri?” Raiden’s voice crackles over the comms, “You guys alright?”

“I almost died,” Foster said, holding his chest and putting a safe distance between him and the spiderweb, “Holy shit.”

“We’re fine, Rai,” Yuuri said, “just a spiderweb.”

“Copy that,” Raiden replied.

“Ew ew ew ew ew,” Foster chanted, carefully ducking around it and shivering, “Did I get any on me?” he turns around to let Yuuri inspect him for stray bits of spider silk.

“You’re good,” Yuuri gave him a thumbs up. Foster still shivered and made a low noise of disgust.

They make a point of sticking close together – Foster so he doesn’t end up running into any webs, and Yuuri so that they’ll be prepared if an adversary sneaks up on them. His preliminary scans of the house were negative, but that doesn’t mean there’s something non-magic inside.

“I swear to god, if a giant demon spider comes at me out of nowhere, I’m _so_ kicking Marod’s ass,” Foster said.

“I’m sure there’s no demonic spiders here,” Yuuri reassured him while they carefully picked their way upstairs. The wood creaks dangerously under their footsteps and they stagger their ascent to avoid risking the rotting planks giving way under their combined weight.

“Better not be,” Foster said.

When they reach the landing, they don’t see much but dust and more cobwebs. The bedrooms are small, populated with vermin and – in one of the rooms – a large very active beehive. They back out slowly to avoid spooking the insects.

“I’m really starting to hate this place,” Foster said conversationally just as the ceiling above them creaks and abruptly gives way.

“Yuuri!” Foster yells, yanking him out of the way.

They get peppered with debris and clouds of dust sting their eyes. Yuuri sneezes and casts a Ward to dissipate the dust. A hissing growl of pain cues him to will the light to shine brighter, reflecting off of acidic green scales.

The demon is about the size of a full-grown alligator with a pointy almost beak-like snout and flat snake-like scales. Its red eyes glow ominously in the partial gloom and it advances slowly on the two Hunters with a threatening hiss. Foster’s favorite throwing knives form from the aether and he raises one, aiming for the tender flesh right between the kruiphor’s eyes.

Yuuri can feel the aether curling between his fingers, but he struggles to will it properly into shape, too distracted by the heavy buzzing in his ears –

Wait.

The buzzing is growing louder and more and more ominous by the second.

“Uh…Foster…” Yuuri started.

A bee lands before Foster can strike – right on the aforementioned soft spot – and everything immediately after occurs in slow motion.

Yuuri can pinpoint the exact moment the bee unleashes its tiny fury (and he has no doubt that these bees have barbs on their stingers). The kruiphor lets out a hideous noise and shakes it off. It’s thrashing attracts the attention of the angry hive and Yuuri quickly wards himself and his partner against getting stung as the bees begin to swarm in earnest and find the most vulnerable spots to attack.

Unfortunately, this means their quarry unleashes its own last line of defense – which, as Yuuri knows from extensive research – that happens to be _highly_ reactive in humid environments. There’s barely a second in between the moment the acid is released and the moment it starts to react with the water-dense air.

“Shit!”

They make a dive for it, crashing through the rotten wooden beams at the top of the landing just as the upstairs is set firmly ablaze. Yuuri angles his body and rolls, sweat beading on his hairline from the heat.

“Mother _fucker_!” Foster swore, crawling out of the crater he made in the floor.

As soon as they leave the house, sound crackles over the comms.

“…Yuuri, Foster! Do you copy?!” Raiden’s voice is colored with panic and it’s clear he’s been asking repeatedly for at least several minutes.

“We’re alive, we’re fine,” Foster said, dusting bits of wood and slapping dust out of his clothes.

“What in Vashti’s name is going on over there?” Marod demanded, “Why didn’t you two respond?”

“Our comms must’ve malfunctioned,” Yuuri said, “We couldn’t hear you asking for a check-in.”

The house is completely engulfed in flames now.

“I’m asking _now_ ,” Marod said.

“Feck off,” Foster grumbled, inspecting himself for spider silk, “we almost caught fire thanks to you and your asinine plan.”

“Long story short: bees and kruiphor demons don’t mix,” Yuuri interjected before they could get into _another_ argument.

“Oh, so you did find it then,” Rai said.

“ _Yes_ ,” Foster snapped, “Keep up.”

“Stay put, we’ll come to you,” Marod ordered. Foster snapped a mocking salute even though their Dragonbeast lieutenant can’t see it over the comms.

“Do you have to antagonize him?” Yuuri sighed, “You know he can breathe fire, right?”

“I’ve got weapons of my own,” Foster said, conjuring a stiletto from the aether and giving it an expert flip between his fingers and directing a savage fangy smile in Yuuri’s direction.

As far as Yuuri knows, they’ve never gotten along, even before Yuuri joined Gamma Unit. To Foster, Marod is just another stuffy faerie who can’t see past the end of his own ego, and Marod thinks that Foster is a problem child with discipline issues. Yuuri thinks the fact that they’re both over a century old has something to do with the fact that they just can’t get along.

Marod and Raiden emerge from the shores of the stagnant bayou and Foster wrinkles his nose.

“Ugh,” Foster says and Marod ignores him, coming to stand next to Yuuri with his yellow eyes firmly fixed on the blaze.

“The target is inside,” Marod said.

“Yep,” Yuuri confirmed.

“Excellent,” Marod walks confidently into the burning house, conjuring his ridiculous sword as he does. Yuuri blinks at his broad back, totally nonplussed.

“Show off,” Foster muttered, “Like the rest of us can’t do the same thing if Yuuri wards us against catching fire.”

“Yeah but, his fireproof-ness isn’t temporary,” Raiden said. Foster punched him in the arm, eliciting a pained yelp from the werewolf, “What was _that_ for?!”

“For insulting Yuuri’s magic,” Foster said primly, “you deserved it.” Raiden spluttered, clutching his arm.

 _A nap sounds…amazing right now_ , Yuuri thought, _maybe a well-deserved cup of cocoa before? Yeah…that sounds good._

Marod emerges from the burning house, his sword dissipating into smoke and smelling strongly of woodfire, “Let’s go.” Foster rolled his eyes.

By the time they got back to the office, Yuuri was _so_ ready for a nap…and maybe a slice of cake or two. Jade- _sensei_ listened to the report with a flat expression until Foster got to the bit about the bees and her eyebrows raised in interest.

“Bees, huh?” she murmured.

“They were _everywhere_ ,” Foster emphasized, “If Yuuri hadn’t put up his Wards, we’d both be a sorry state.” (Foster had in fact confirmed that getting stung by a bee was just as painful for a vampire as it was for a human, “We just heal faster, and we don’t develop an allergy to the neurotoxin,” he said with a shrug.)

“You are too reliant on young Katsuki’s magic,” Merod said flatly, “I knew from the start you’d become dependent on his skills. It is pitiful a fighter such as yourself has to rely on a rookie.” Foster takes out his phone, pretending to talk to it before holding it out to Merod.

“It’s the pot, he wants you to know that you’re black too,” Foster deadpanned, unimpressed.

Jade- _sensei_ heaved a sigh and there was immediate silence.

“Oh, good, you’re done,” she said, “I expect the written report to be delivered to Celestino by 2100 hours. _Without_ any arguing, _thank_ you very much. Dismissed.” Sometimes it still amazes him how much respect Jade- _sensei_ commands, even from Merod who’s probably way way older than she is. It’s probably that scary left eye of hers…

He startles when he feels her at his shoulder and turns to look at her and she gives him a blank look.

“Don’t mind me, carry on,” she said, sipping her tea and going back to reading his written report over his shoulder.

Yep. It’s totally the eye. Definitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so...maybe it's not _just_ the eye. Heh heh. 
> 
> kruiphor (cry-For) = from the Dutch (according to Google translate) word for 'reptile/creepy' and the Greek '-phor' for 'produce' (taken from the word pyrophoricity). A demonic subspecies that secretes a _highly_ reactive acid thought to contain plutonium. 
> 
> Keep in mind, these little side-stories/drabbles/what-have-you will vary in length and, just like the main fic, are un-Beta'd. Updates will most likely be just as inconsistent as the ones for the main story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: G  
> Warnings: none

_August 1981; Nikiforovskoye_

The lights click on and his eyes shut tightly.

“How long are you going to wallow on the ground like a common rat?” Uncle Vasily demands, and Victor suppresses a flinch when he feels a hard dig in his ribs.

His legs wobble and his knees throb but he manages to get on his feet, and spots dance across his vision when he does. The world goes strangely tilted for a moment even though he knows he’s standing still.

It’s been three days of near-constant darkness in this enclosed room with one exit.

Three days of learning how to use his other senses reliably to defend and attack.

Three days of getting knocked around.

Three days of straight losses with no sleep.

In other words: three days of complete suckage.

“Well, Vityenka?” Uncle Vasily asked, peeling off his gloves.

“Again,” Victor rasps. His uncle appears to consider him for a moment.

“I admire your tenacity, nephew,” he said finally, “it is truly impressive.”  

Victor hardly feels the impact with the floor when he’s knocked back down, his ankles stinging from where his uncle had swept his feet out from under him for the umpteenth time and his body takes the hint. His limbs refuse to cooperate with the commands from his brain and he lays there for a moment too long.

“I think we’re done,” Uncle Vasily declares, “We’ll resume once you’ve recovered.”

Victor closes his eyes and defeat sits heavy on the back of his tongue as bitter as bile. It’s easier to give in to his body’s demands for sleep than to dwell on his shortcomings and it feels like there’s weights attached to his eyelids anyway.

He wakes up sore, tucked into the bed that he’s commandeered during the length of his stay. Sitting up is a herculean effort – his back, his abdomen, his legs all _hurt_. He gingerly gets out of bed and limps down the hall to the bathroom to relieve himself.

The harsh light throws his bruises into sharp contrast against his pale skin. Some are already turning yellow, while others are blooming a violent dark purple and blue. One of his fingernails is missing and the finger that he suspected he broke on the first day is healed. He looks down past his bruised legs to his toes, gives them all a wiggle, and sees they’re all accounted for.

When he’s finished, he notices the house is dead quiet – not unusual, since his uncle is a bit of a hermit (the family estate isn’t known for playing host to extravagant gatherings and lavish parties anyway). He quietly closes the bathroom door behind him and then he hears the voices. He follows his ears to the study and stops before reaching the doors.

“…you can’t possibly be serious?”

 _Why is mama here?_ Victor wonders. She doesn’t sound upset, just surprised. Both mama and papa had made an agreement with Uncle Vasily to minimize their interference during his training, and that _included_ visits. It’s been three months since he last saw a face that didn’t belong to one of the household staff or Uncle Vasily. He’s struck by the asinine impulse to knock and interrupt their conversation just to see her, though he knows doing so would probably result in some form of punishment for giving himself away. _If you’re doing to eavesdrop, Vitya, I suggest you stick to the rules of stealth._

“I am,” Uncle Vasily replied, “He has remarkable potential, Yvette. I’d even go so far as to call him a prodigy.”

“It’s just…he’s so _young_ , Vasily,” she said.  

“We all were,” Uncle Vasily said.

“He’s _eleven_ ,” _now_ mama sounded upset, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until he’s got more training and experience?”

Victor isn’t sure he wants to hear more, and there’s only a matter of time before he’s discovered anyway. He limps back to the guest room and climbs into bed, pulling the covers over him and falling fast asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings for this chapter: none really. Unless you hate theater.

_October 1994; Detroit_

The lights of the theatre glowed garish lime green and bright fluorescent yellow at the tail end of the street. It looked a little out of place among the seedier buildings with its Broadway-inspired façade that even boasted a little ticket office. Yuuri suppressed a curse and walked faster when he saw the beginnings of a queue, darting around the side of the building to the stage door entrance. He knocked as hard as he dared before drawing back and tucking his cold fingers into his armpits. He bounced on the balls of his feet for a good twenty seconds before knocking again and the door finally swung open.

“Oh, Yuuri, it’s you,” Butch said, “Peach was just lookin’ for you-“

“Thanks Butch,” Yuuri said, darting past the beefy stage hand, peeling off his layers as he went, “I’ll find them later!”

God, he’s _really_ cutting it close. He has maybe twenty minutes before curtain (and that’s a _big_ maybe). He still has to warm up (literally and figuratively) and get dressed and pray that Peach doesn’t find him and chew him out. In his defense, he’s a science major taking eighteen credits this semester and midterms are kicking his ass. He’d passed out after taking his genetics exam and barely woke up in time to book it down here for his shift.

 _Peach is gonna_ kill _me_ , he thought, bursting into his dressing room and startling his fellow dancers.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” he chanted, shrugging off his coat.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” Quinn huffed. One of her slim legs was propped up on the vanity, and there was a bottle of her favorite deep red polish in her hand.

“Sorry, I’m really sorry,” Yuuri repeated, toeing off his shoes and pulling off his socks.

“You’re usually the first one here, what happened?” Andy asked, tube of lipstick still in her hand while she inspected her reflection for flaws.

“Midterms,” Yuuri explained and sat himself on the floor to start stretching. The girls made noises of understanding.

“You’re up fourth, so you still have time,” Quinn said, “I’m sure Peach won’t be too hard on you. She _was_ getting a little worried though.”

Yuuri notes the pronoun Quinn used for their fearless stage designer and director and presses himself into the first stretch. He hates having to resort to the truncated version of his warm-up, but he’s already watching the door while keeping his ears peeled for the curtain call. He points his toes, breathes into each split and extension for a long ten seconds, then hauls himself up from the floor.

There’s a short knock on the door just before it opens and it’s Lime – Peach’s partner and the theater manager – who sticks their head in. Lime is dressed immaculately to fit tonight’s theme in a crisp white shirt with a rich purple double-breasted waistcoat, and dark gray trousers, and their turquoise hair slicked and sharply parted. “Hey, have you seen – Yuuri!” Lime said, “You _are_ here! Peach said you weren’t at roll call.”

“I overslept,” Yuuri apologized, clapping his palms together and inclining his head in utmost respite, “I’m so sorry. Midterms are kicking my ass, I’ve got all this homework-“

“Yuuri,” Lime interrupted loudly, “It’s fine. Just get dressed. We’ll see you on stage, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri nodded.

“Good,” Lime gave him a little smile, “I’ll let Peach know you’re not dead in an alley somewhere. Fifteen to curtain.” They closed the door and Yuuri swallowed the jitters that had risen to sit uncomfortably under his Adam’s apple. He reached for the first costume hanging on the little rack by his vanity with his name (he’d never get used to seeing it in romaji) written in marker on a scrap of paper and stuck over the hanger.

It was his first time seeing the finished product since Peach had taken his measurements and looking at it now, it made so much more sense why she’d measured every inch of him and done so many fittings. If this performance proved popular, he couldn’t gain an ounce of weight or else he’d never be able to wear it again. The bodysuit is meant to taper to his shape and build perfectly, with a halterneck to leave his shoulders bare and arms free. When he finally manages to wriggle into it, it feels like he’s wearing another layer of skin. A much heavier velvet layer.

“Yuuri, is everything okay?” Andy asked when he lingers behind the changing screen, smoothing his hands over the velvet and trying not to feel self-conscious in front of his reflection. He hasn’t put on the long gloves that are supposed to go with it or the boots just yet. His face is bare and his hair uncombed and he swallows hard.

“Um, yes,” he says, “everything’s fine. I’m just…taking it in.”

He’s two seconds from taking it off and telling Peach he can’t do the number. _My Heart Belongs to Daddy_ is usually performed by a woman. A sophisticated classically beautiful woman…like Andy. His legs aren’t long enough, and his thighs are too plush from guiltily indulging in too many chocolate croissants.  

“I felt the same way when Peach first made me a new costume,” Andy said and then she sighed, “Oh the memories.”

He can pull off androgynous from behind, but with this much skin on display, it’s too obvious that he’s male-

“All I can remember is thinking, ‘Can I really pull this off?’” Quinn added, and Andy made a noise of agreement.

His thoughts go quiet at that, and the giant Atlas moths in his chest have shrunk back to regular butterflies. Yuuri steps out quietly from behind the screen and Andy whistles.

“ _Yuu_ ri,” she says, raking her eyes up and down, “You know, I have to say, I didn’t know I’d have a thing for this.”

“Andy,” he whines, covering his face.

“If I could have your thighs for, like, one day, I’d tear a hole through this city,” Quinn said, staring blatantly at his legs.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri groans, pressing his hands further to his burning skin. They giggle at how red he’s turned.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, put the rest of it on,” Quinn says, flapping her hands at him.

His face is still burning while he puts the boots on and laces the rich suede into place just above the backs of his knees, his toes flexing and relaxing in the shoes that’s he’s been trying to break in for the past two weeks.

“Oh, he’s gonna break hearts tonight,” Andy said.

“Hearts, minds, dicks,” Quinn said, startling a laugh out of Yuuri.

“Thanks,” he said, “I feel better now.”

“Don’t mention it, honey,” Andy said, “Now, we gotta do somethin’ about that hair.”

She helps part and style his hair, while Quinn jumps in to assist with the make-up. His eyes are lined carefully with kohl and his mouth smudged with a dark red lipstick, and it takes him a moment to recognize himself in the mirror. 

Curtain call immediately changes the atmosphere backstage and Yuuri’s nerves quietly flutter in the pit of his stomach, though this time they stay the size of butterflies instead of ballooning to the size of Atlas moths. He helps Andy shrug out of her silk robe and he gently fastens her necklace into place at the base of her neck. Quinn carefully wriggles her freshly painted toes into her character shoes, rolls up her stockings, and hands Andy her silk fan.

While Andy quietly clicks out of the dressing room to take her place, Quinn helps Yuuri into the red elbow length gloves that have been set out for him. Lime’s “Ladies and gentlemen!” is muffled through the walls and the flurry of activity backstage quiets down in anticipation.

Andy opens the night with _I Wanna Be Loved by You_ and Yuuri can already picture her routine in his head, having seen it in rehearsal so many times. He helps Quinn with her tie and she quietly leaves to get into her place for the next song.

He steps out of the dressing room when the first number ends and prompts enthusiastic applause before Lime introduces the next act. Yuuri unzips Andy when she comes rushing over and she smacks an air kiss in his direction while she hurries into the dressing room to strip and change for her next song. Music filters backstage through the walls and leaks heavily through to side stage and Yuuri warms up in earnest for his turn.

When Mason, Lime, and Josh file off stage after finishing _Style_ , he finds his place on stage in the dark and waits for the lights to come up and the music to cue.

He doesn’t lip-sync or sing the songs like his castmates do – though he’s been told his voice is decent – instead he lets the music and the dance do all the work.

_If I invite a boy some night, to dine on my fine finnan haddie, I just adore his asking for more, but my heart belongs to daddy_

At first, when Peach suggested pole-dancing - especially to _this_ song that was considered a long-time classic - he’d balked a little. The lyrics were sensual enough, especially with the right vocalist who could croon the words just so to the audience – wouldn’t it be overkill?

Of course, Peach had proved him wrong.

_Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy. So, I simply couldn’t be bad. Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy._

The routine is difficult, and the gloves give him just enough grip but don’t reduce the amount of friction so much that he finds it hard to control every transition, turn, and pose. He finds himself settling into the music and following the rise and fall of the vocalist’s croon.

There are appreciative noises from the audience when he inverts himself into the Jasmine, his arm sweeping over the stage towards the audience and he locks eyes with a guest. Heat flushes up his spine and threatens to rise up his chest into his cheeks. He almost can’t believe how intense that look was…and from a man so obviously handsome and well-to-do?

Is…this what it feels like to be _wanted?_

His movements become more suggestive. Green eyes and a salacious smirk are burned in the headspace behind Yuuri’s eyes and the music carries.

_So, I want to warn you, laddie, even though you’re perfectly swell, that my heart belongs to Daddy, ‘Cause my daddy he treats it so well_

He holds the final pose until the lights go down and he makes his way off the stage to enthusiastic applause – and nearly runs head first into Peach who’s clapping along with the audience and gives him a wink. “Gorgeous,” she tells him, “Exactly how I imagined it.”

Yuuri flushes at the praise and opens his mouth to thank her but she shoos him off to go get changed for the ensemble number coming up later.

Cabaret Night ends in success and Yuuri is unexpectedly looking forward to the next one despite the lavish praises from some of his castmates (“Holy _shit_ , Yuuri,” Quinn enthused, “Just… _holy shit_.”) that would usually make him freeze.

Thankfully, he has more midterms, sleep-deprivation, and general suckage to distract from his success.

When he returns for rehearsals two nights later, he finds his castmates are more…excitable than usual. He enters the theater and blinks, totally nonplussed, at the unfamiliar sound of chatter. He balks when they all look at him and there’s a second’s pause, long enough for him to think: _is this what a slice of bread feels like when I feed it to the birds?_ just before he’s basically assaulted with questions.

“Do you know who sent them?”

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“You’ve been holding out on us, haven’t you?”

Yuuri can feel himself shrinking back at the onslaught, tightly clutching the strap of his bag.

“WE HAVE _WORK_ TO DO, PEOPLE!” Peach yelled over the din, immediately getting everyone’s attention when they bang their cane against the stage floor, “PLACES!”

Yuuri slips away to set his stuff in his dressing room and gapes at the lush bouquet he finds waiting for him on his vanity. The purple lilies, champagne pink roses, and moonflowers are delicately arranged in a royal blue vase. Yuuri hesitates to even breathe near the flowers, somehow getting the feeling that they’re outrageously expensive.

“I thought plain roses might be too boring.” Yuuri startles, dropping his coat and he nearly chokes on his next inhale.

He _recognizes_ those eyes.

The stranger’s lashes are so black, it gives the illusion that they were somehow lined delicately with kohl. Smooth skin and artfully trimmed whiskers, with honey blonde hair fading into a black undercut. The cable knit sweater softens his appearance, though Yuuri had no doubt that in a suit this man would be dangerous.

“Did I make the right choice?” he asked, tilting his head. Yuuri blinked at him.

“You’re a vampire,” he blurts and then immediately wants to smack himself. _Wow, way to make an impression, Yuuri. Mom really raised you right, huh?_

Thankfully, the vampire doesn’t seem _too_ offended.  

“And you’re a Warlock,” the stranger replied, looking faintly amused.

“Um…they’re really pretty,” Yuuri said, awkwardly bending down to pick up his coat and neatly folding it over the back of his chair, “The-the flowers, I mean. You didn’t have to.” He looks up only to avoid looking at the lush bouquet.

 _There_. _That’s_ the smirk.

“I know,” he said, then extended his hand, “Christophe Giacometti, at your service.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost didn't post this. But I figured something a little more upbeat is what the doctor ordered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: Oh No...He's Still Hot. 
> 
> Rating: E  
> Warnings for this chapter: cage dancing, sexual content, Victor's continued thirst

_December 2019; Florence_

He finds Chris at the bar chatting amiably with his equally fangy friends and nursing a rather suspicious glass of rich red wine.

“Chris, have you seen Yuuri?” Victor asked. Honestly, he’d turned his back for a _minute._ If he’d known that Drunk Yuuri was going to be just as much of a handful as Drunk Mila, he never would have insisted that they go out tonight. There are too many bodies in close quarters and it’s far too easy for someone to pull a knife and shank him (okay not _that_ easy. He’s a Nikiforov after all).

“I think we’ve _all_ seen him, _mon cher_ ,” Chris said, green eyes sparkling with amusement and pointed to one of the cages above the dance floor.

Victor feels his mouth go dry and all his agitation is kicked firmly to the curb at the sight of his boyfriend in tight jeans and _nothing_ else.

Yuuri is a sight to behold – all lean muscle, olive-tinted skin, and ink black hair.

The duality of his boyfriend can easily give anybody whiplash – on one hand, Yuuri regularly wears sweater vests and button downs and looks like the Softest Boy Ever…and then there’s _this_. There are moments where even he can’t reconcile his adorable nerd with the incubus currently writhing in time to Rob Zombie’s iconic growl.

His feet have grown roots. His eyes are riveted…and it’s all Yuuri’s fault.

Gods they should’ve gone clubbing _sooner_.

_Crawl on me, sink into me, die for me, living dead girl…_

Fingers delicately slide under his chin and close his mouth. “You’re practically drooling,” Chris said, clearly trying to bite back laughter, “Your first time seeing him dance?”

“First time seeing him dance like _that_ ,” Victor said, _giving the entire club a demonstration on how he earned the nickname ‘Eros’_. He’s seen Yuuri in dance tights and leggings, dripping sweat from dancing for hours in the studio (and holy hell thinking about that is _not_ helping), but this? This is an entirely different monster.

Chris lets out a nostalgic sigh, “You know, the first time I met him was a lot like this.”

Victor nods absently, still unable to tear his eyes away, “Uh huh.”

His friend snorts, “Go on and get him.”

Victor feels like he’s having an out of body experience as he weaves his way through the mass of club-goers to stand underneath the cage. He could understand why most observers would want to observe at a distance, though even then the bars break up the silhouette. But now, Victor can see the light sheen of sweat on Yuuri’s body and the easy flex of his abdomen as his body rolls in time to the music. His movements are fluid, controlled in the compact space where he’s not able to kick out and show off those pretty extensions.

Yuuri – probably sensing Victor’s gaze – makes eye contact and he grins and it’s like a punch to the throat. Victor’s pretty sure he actually whimpered out loud.

Victor watches Yuuri gracefully lower himself from the cage, strong biceps deliciously bunched as he grips the bars and controls his descent, his bare feet dangling precariously above the dance floor and Victor steps forward to catch him. His knees brace and his arms catch Yuuri right underneath his thighs, giving Victor the perfect excuse to let Yuuri slide down the length of his body, his hands getting a single pass over firm pert flesh.

“Hi,” Yuuri says breathlessly, looking up at Victor when his feet touch the floor.

“Well, hello there,” Victor grins, “Quite the show you put on.”

Victor can see Yuuri’s confidence waver for a second, overshadowed by uncertainty, “Did you like it?”

“I liked it a little _too_ much,” Victor said, slightly shifting his weight and Yuuri’s eyes go wide.

It’s amazing, watching that uncertainty disappear and be crowded out by heated understanding. Yuuri reaches up to nuzzle his nose against Victor’s. He doesn’t know when they started swaying to the new song, caught up in the hypnotic lull of the bassline and baritone croon.

_Take off your dress, and think about the way you were last night…_

The kiss is slow and chaste and Yuuri tastes like tequila and grapefruit but heat still pools low in Victor’s belly all the same. His hands flex against where they’re holding Yuuri’s hips with the urge to haul him even closer and devour. When they part to breathe, mouth still tingling, and Victor can make out the color in Yuuri’s cheeks, his mind is made up.

Really, it’s nothing short of a miracle that they make it back to his apartment.

Yuuri has him against the wall in the entryway where the Portal deposited them, mouth hot on his and helping Victor out of his shirt and Victor needs to get him to bed before they make a spectacular mess.

Of course, in his lapsing concentration, they make it to the couch instead. It’s taking every ounce of his carefully cultivated focus not to cum in his pants with Yuuri’s warm weight in his lap grinding his hips forward with an even teasing rhythm that’s driving him _crazy_. He suckles a kiss into the sensitive spot adjacent to Yuuri’s pulse while his hands slide down Yuuri’s back to inch their way under the waistband of those infuriating jeans and finally grip that glorious ass.

Gods, he’s had _dreams_ about this ass.

Yuuri lets out a low wanton sound and his rhythm finally falters. Victor presses Yuuri forward, kneading each handful of supple flesh the best he can despite the tight denim restricting his range of motion, and laves a path of wet kisses along Yuuri’s collarbone. There’s an adorable squeak from above when Victor nips the thin flesh and then suckles a kiss into place at the base of Yuuri’s neck.

“Victor,” Yuuri whined.

“Bedroom?” Victor asked, hardly recognizing his own voice. He’s surprised he can even remember how to speak Russian right now.

“Mmhm,” Yuuri hums his agreement and Victor pulls his hands out of Yuuri’s jeans to grip equally glorious thighs before standing and carefully walking them into the bedroom. His devious partner takes the opportunity to suck distracting kisses into Victor’s neck.

“Yuuri,” Victor whines, “you’re gonna make drop you.” Yuuri giggles and somehow Victor gets them both into the bedroom, nudging the door closed behind them before Makkachin can follow them in, and lays Yuuri out across the bed.

For a moment, Victor just stares, taking in the sight of his beautifully disheveled boyfriend who inexplicably starts to turn pink and squirm.

“What?” Yuuri asked, clearly embarrassed. Victor doesn’t understand how such a divine creature could be so oblivious to just how gorgeous they are.

“Nothing, I’m just imprinting this image on my eyeballs is all,” Victor answered cheerfully. Yuuri snorted and dissolved into giggles, the tension melting out of him.  

“You’re such a dork,” Yuuri said.

Gods, he’s gorgeous. As creepy as it sounds, Victor would be happy just watching him all day. A relaxed and happy Yuuri was the best Yuuri (it was right up there with Pajama Yuuri, Sleepy Yuuri…all of the Yuuris really).

“And you’re cute,” Victor said, leaning down to nuzzle close and breathe him in, “My adorable sexy Yuuri.”

He smells like faerie glitter, sweat, and the slightest trace of cocoa powder.

“Victoooor,” Yuuri whined, trying to turn his face into the pillows to hide his returning blush, “Stawwp.” Victor chuckled and slipped a hand underneath Yuuri’s shirt, tracing his hands along his abdomen. Yuuri was toned and tight, but he still had that little bit of softness stubbornly clinging to his ribs and hips. Victor nuzzled downwards while his hand pushed Yuuri’s shirt up high above his nipples, pressing soft wet kisses to every bit of skin on the way down, lingering for a moment on the intricate tattoo on his right flank. Yuuri’s breath hitched with every pause, every flash of tongue against warm skin.

The urgency that had threatened to burn him alive from the inside eased into a simmer. For once, his greed took a backseat to the desire to _please_. He wanted more of those aborted sounds and pitchy squeaks that told him where Yuuri was sensitive. He didn’t want to rush this, he wanted to _savor_ it and burn it into every single dendrite, every single axon.

“Can I?” he asked, pausing with his hands poised to remove Yuuri’s trousers, and prepared to leave it if he gave the yellow light.

“Please,” Yuuri squirmed, his hands going to the button at his waist and undoing the zipper before reaching below the parted fabric and giving himself a squeeze.

 _Gods_ …heat pooled low in Victor’s belly and he realized that taking his time would be…difficult. He wanted so much and Yuuri wasn’t making this any easier with his provocative displays.

Victor stripped off his shirt and unbuttoned his own jeans before making short work of Yuuri’s clothes, spreading his thighs, and planting kisses to the soft flesh all the way down to the apex where Yuuri’s hip met his groin and he nipped.

“Ah-, “ Yuuri gasped and Victor soothed the sting with a wet kiss before moving to the other leg, taking his time all the way back down.

“Mm,” Victor hummed, sucking a mark into place over his pulse point. He can feel Yuuri’s heartbeat underneath his lips and the tingling warmth from his magic spreads all the way up to his cheeks.

“Victor,” Yuuri breathed, “Victor _please_ -” the little hitch in his voice goes straight to Victor’s dick and when he looks up, Yuuri’s cinnamon eyes are dark, lips bitten red, and he’s flushed from his chest to his cheeks.

 _I can’t deny him anything_. Victor will swear that the needy little sound that escapes him is completely involuntary and he crawls back up Yuuri’s body to kiss him. Victor groans when Yuuri hooks a leg over his hip to drag him closer.

“Fuck me,” Yuuri groans against his lips.

“Are you-?” Victor begins, he’s not sure how many drinks Yuuri had when his back was turned and the last thing he wants is to take advantage of his (hopefully not) inebriated boyfriend. Yuuri sharply nips Victor’s bottom lip before he can finish the question.

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough.” There’s a stern look on Yuuri’s face that he reserves for when Victor’s been irresponsible in the field, cinnamon eyes dark and clear with intent…and Victor certainly can’t say no to that face. He kisses his way back down until he reaches where Yuuri’s hard and leaking. A soft kiss to the base of Yuuri’s erection earns Victor the first little sigh. He finds Yuuri is most sensitive just underneath the glans when he licks a hot stripe up the length of him and he lets his tongue tickle the spot just before slowly suckling the head. Yuuri whines and his hips twitch, and Victor lifts his mouth away to sit up and grab the lube. 

Yuuri’s nose wrinkles in discomfort when Victor carefully presses the first finger in, and it only takes a minute or two before he relaxes, and Victor adds more lube before gently circling his rim with two digits and rocking them inside little by little. His mouth goes a little dry when Yuuri lets out a little whimper or stifles a moan.

“Victor,” Yuuri whined.

“Shhh,” Victor soothed, “I’ve got you.” he’s making a mess now with three fingers carefully opening Yuuri up. He can feel his partner’s walls relax, making the glide smoother. Yuuri’s hips twitch when Victor removes his fingers so he can put on the condom. “Ready?” he nuzzles Yuuri’s nose with his, stealing a quick kiss.

“Yes,” Yuuri sighed.

Victor watches for any signs of discomfort when he pushes forward, gritting his teeth and violently strangling the urge to mindlessly drive further into the glorious warmth. His hips rock in increments and Yuuri lets out little gasps and sighs underneath him until Victor bottoms out and he pauses to gather his mental strength.

And then Yuuri hooks his legs over Victor’s hips, pulling him forward just that little bit more, “Mmn, I said to _fuck me_.”

A burst of surprised laughter escapes Victor, interrupting the groan that bubbles up in his chest, “I thought I was.” Yuuri’s lips are pursed in a frustrate moue and his cheeks are flushed. He’s so adorable. Victor grins, “Yuuri are you _impatient_?”

Yuuri pointedly looks away, mumbling something unintelligible in Japanese. Victor kisses his cheek, “You’re so cute.”

Watching Yuuri’s face go slack with pleasure on the next thrust is so satisfying that Victor wouldn’t mind seeing it again every single day. He sets a hard-steady rhythm, eyes fixed on his partner to catch the moment he got the angle just right. Yuuri’s kiss swollen lips are parted to let each delectable sound escape.

“Vic-“ Yuuri pants, cutting off with a whine when Victor finds his sweet spot.

“Mm?” Victor asked, still fucking relentlessly forward and he leans forward, one arm sliding beneath Yuuri’s hips to help maintain the angle and Yuuri reaches up for another kiss. Their mouths meet sloppily, a mess of panting, teeth, and tongue. He can faintly feel Yuuri’s knuckles brush against his abdomen as he strokes himself and Victor's even rhythm becomes disjointed, fast and rough as they each start to reach their peak.

Victor hits his first and Yuuri isn’t far behind. They take a moment to let the afterglow set in, just enjoying each other’s warmth until Victor has to get up and make sure they’re both clean before bed.

“Alright there, love?” Victor asked after disposing of the condom and grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom.

“Mmm, I’m fine,” Yuuri answered with a lazy little smile, “More than fine. I’m great.”

Victor gently wipes him off before tossing the washcloth in the bathroom hamper and climbing into bed for a good snuggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the perverts who read the main fic and were disappointed that there was no smut (you know who you are), this is for you :P
> 
> In case you can't tell, I don't usually write this kind of stuff. Hell, it took me at least two months just to finish this because I kept having cringe attacks every time I would go back and re-read through a paragraph (I cringed for three days after writing "get the lube") and then I'd spend way too long rewriting everything. I applaud the writers in this forum who can write consistently good porn because I am not one of them. 
> 
> Oh, and the songs in case anybody wants to know:  
> Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie (a classic)  
> 403 by Drug Restaurant


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Might make you cry if you play sad violin music in the background.

_April 2012; Moscow_

It seemed strangely fitting that the day of the funeral was heralded with a grey sky and the smell of rain lingering in the air. Every strike of the old bell hanging in the church tower followed the procession into the graveyard, led by the pallbearers carrying the two caskets and behind them the priest in his black robes.

Victor lags behind the procession of guests, absently tugging on the sleeves of his dress uniform and adjusting the high collar of the jacket. Wearing it had earned him a few disdainful looks that had mostly gone ignored, but the only thing he regrets is not getting the jacket re-sized.

It’s unusual, he thinks, for Exorcists – especially two magic practitioners – to be buried in the customs of the Church, even if this particular cathedral has been run by allies of the IMC for nearly three centuries. The Plisetskys had never struck him as particularly religious, but then again, he’s never been the best at getting to know people.

At the gravesite, the priest doesn’t recite passages from the little book clutched in his hands, but instead wishes the dead well on their journey as the caskets are lowered into their plots, before offering the bowl of gravedirt to the members of the family – an eleven-year-old with Natasha Plisetsky’s coloring and stubborn expression, and an older gentleman that Victor doesn’t recognize.

“What a waste.” He glances to his right, where Lilia is standing a ways from the crowd who are throwing in flowers and saying their final goodbyes, resplendent in her dress blues and holding a red umbrella to protect herself from the first droplets of rain. Victor is silently inclined to agree, even though he hasn’t been a part of their Unit for very long. Natasha and Adrian had been a powerful couple and upstanding Hunters. He remembers how they’d accepted him and encouraged his attempts to become more ingratiated within the Unit.

He wonders if he’ll have to transfer again. Without them around to mediate there’s no doubt there’ll be significant breakdown in his relationship with the other members.

The crowd starts to disperse, thinning up to where now Victor can see the priest standing vigil next to the old man and little Yuri Plisetsky who he imagines has been facing the possibility that his parents might not make it home one day for quite a while now. But still, nobody is ever truly prepared to lose their family, are they?

Eventually, it’s just himself, Lilia, and the two remaining Plisetskys. And the church bells have long gone silent. The rain continues to come down in a hesitant drizzle, the sky waiting for the right moment to dump the rest.

The Director quietly walks up to stand by the gravesite, “You did well. Rest now.” she turns her attention to little Yuri who glares into the two plots, his young face pinched with grief. “When you are older and you fancy joining us, my doors are open.” The older gentleman visibly tightens his grip on Yuri and his bushy eyebrows furrow, but Lilia is already walking away with her red umbrella held aloft.

Victor sighs and glances skyward at the darkening clouds. He conjures an umbrella for himself and opens it before turning to go – unlike his colleagues, he doesn’t have much to say to people who aren’t actually around to hear. He gets halfway to the graveyard gates before he feels a tug on the back of his jacket and he blinks, “Hm?”

Little Yuri’s standing there when he turns around, eyes red-rimmed and angry, “You were there.” Well he certainly inherited his father’s penchant for getting straight to the point.

 “I was.” The older gentleman – Yuri’s grandfather perhaps – is hurrying (in the loosest sense possible) up the path after his wayward grandson. Victor hopes he hurries better. He’s really not in the mood to explain the events that led up to the death of Yuri’s parents, especially when he already relives them every other night.

“Why did you live,” Yuri demanded, “and they didn’t? You’re a murderer. Everyone says so. So, how come you didn’t die?”

_He can smell the sickness and the horrible stench of decay. Rapid gunfire echoed off the sewer walls, the purulent water lapping against their ankles –_

“I’m not too sure myself,” Victor replied, “We all should’ve died to be perfectly honest.” Yuri’s grandfather reaches them then, huffing and holding a stitch in his side.

“Yurotchka, you shouldn’t run off like that,” the gentleman says, “I apologize if he’s bothered you at all.”

“It’s no trouble. Really,” Victor waves him off.

“Thank you for being here,” the old gentleman says, drawing Yuri into his side, “I’m sure they would’ve appreciated it.” The look on Little Yuri’s face heavily implies that he disagrees.

“Of course,” Victor said eventually, “they were part of my team, after all.” He leaves then because ‘have a good evening’ after burying your family doesn’t seem all that appropriate.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be working on the next chapter of Fiat Nox...instead I'm posting sad things.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: G  
> Warnings: N/A

_March 1995; Detroit_

He briefly glances up from his textbook when the chair across the table from him is pulled out. The man who takes a seat looks a bit too old to be a student here, but he doesn’t recall there ever being a rule that said only twenty-somethings could attend university.

Yuuri goes back to quietly copying a diagram into his notebook, pausing in the middle of labeling when fingers begin to quietly drum a patient pattern into the wood.

“Um, could you stop doing that?” he asked, looking up, “It’s really distracting.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting your studies, Mr. Katsuki,” the vampire smiles, exposing the slightest bit of fang.

“Do I…know you?” Yuuri frowned. Growing up in the hospitality industry means he’s gotten pretty good at remembering faces, but with the stress of juggling homework, exams, and rehearsals, his memory has become spotty.

“Well, no,” the vampire shrugged.  

Yuuri finally notices the Tags partially hidden within the folds of the stranger’s clothes, _He’s an Exorcist_. It’s reassuring to know that he hasn’t been singled out as a snack, but his anxious lizard brain still doesn’t take the hint and starts to wave even _more_ red flags.

_If he doesn’t want to eat me, then what does he want?_

“Is there something I can help you with, then, Mr…?”

“Celestino Cialdini, HUNTER Department Manager,” he said, “And we could _absolutely_ use your help.”

What in the hell could the Agency’s elite want with him? He’s a biology student that dances part-time to feed himself and pay for his books. There’s nothing particularly special about him or the theater where he dances (except it’s owned by a salacious vampire).

“Um…okay?”

“We’re in the middle of a particularly difficult case,” Celestino said, folding his hands in front of him, “Information has been…frustratingly hard to come by and it’s hindering our ability to make an arrest.”

“I’m not following,” Yuuri frowned.

“A certain patron at the Daiquiri Theater has taken interest in you as of late,” Celestino continued, “If at all possible, we’d like you to get close to him and find out what he knows.”

At first, he thinks of Chris who was the first ever to send him flowers after a performance but that doesn’t seem right at all. He was already, er, close to Chris who was as legitimate a businessman as you could get. The man loved genuine entertainment (“I can’t get that by exploiting vulnerable people, Yuuri. I want people who _love_ their craft and want to be there because they love it, not because their children are starving, and they have no choice but to dance.”).

Then, he pictures black eyes glittering with faerie mischief and last week’s pot of gorgeous sundrops that still sat on the windowsill back in his dorm – petals slightly glowing as they greedily absorbed each ray of sunshine. He’d balked at each outrageously luxurious gift but those…he hadn’t been able to turn those away, despite Chris’s earlier warnings when the first gifts had arrived, each card signed in neat kanji.

 _That man is dangerous_.

“I…I don’t think I can do that,” Yuuri couldn’t stop his voice from shaking. He doesn’t understand what some big wig criminal would see in him anyway.

“Your hesitation is understandable,” Celestino said, nodding thoughtfully, “This isn’t some simple task we’re requesting. You’d be risking your life.” Yuuri stares at him, feeling for a moment like he’s the butt of some practical joke. One of the Agency’s higher-ups from their most clandestine department approaching a random civilian to ask for a help with a high-profile case is so hilariously unbelievable, he’s waiting for someone to jump out from behind the stacks and yell ‘April fools!’.

But those Tags look legitimate and this isn’t funny at all.

“Does the Agency make a habit of this?” Yuuri asked slowly.

“This is a rare circumstance,” Celestino answered, “Cao Bin’s information would be exceedingly valuable to this case, and the crush he has on you is the only in we’ve got.”

Yuuri spluttered, unable to stop his embarrassment from coloring his cheeks and making his ears burn. Calling it a ‘crush’ is a bit ridiculous. What is there to admire? He’s so pathetically ordinary that he elected to go to a human university instead of a magical one because he can’t manage more than a few basic spells. It’s only years of politeness ingrained from working in the Japanese hospitality industry that’s keeping him from packing all his things in a hurry and blatantly running away.

“I don’t have any special skills,” Yuuri channels his mother when she’s dealing with a particularly impatient customer, keeping his voice as polite and calm as possible, “I can’t fight and I’m not all that charismatic. Plus, I’ve got graduation to worry about.”

Celestino doesn’t seem deterred at all.

“Well, those things can easily be remedied,” he says, “I’m happy to train you myself if you’re worried about being able to defend yourself. As for graduation, well, we don’t mind waiting.”

Somehow, Yuuri gets the feeling that he’s not being given much of a choice here. Even when Celestino slides him a card with a phone number on it and tells him to give him a call.

And then he’s alone again in the silence of the library.

First instinct tells him to throw the card away. To burn it and put the whole meeting out of his mind. Because that is absolutely what he _should_ do.

 _Why should_ I _help the Agency? This has nothing to do with me._

He stares at the phone number messily hand-written on the back of the card before slowly tucking it into his wallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of imagine sundrops to be a cross between lilies and angel's trumpet (this is where being able to draw would've come in handy...).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: G  
> Warnings: Mentions of blood?

_July 2019; Bunkyo_

Victor grimaces at the uncomfortable tug and pull on the wound, torn between watching in fascination as Yuuri uses blue Stitch Wards to approximate the edges of the laceration on his thigh and watching Yuuri’s face.

“How long did it take you to learn how to do that?” Victor asked.

“A while,” Yuuri answered distractedly, his eyebrows furrowed over his glasses. His jaw is set in concentration, and for a moment Victor allows himself to be distracted by Yuuri’s delicate hands. It makes sense that Yuuri’s graceful in everything he does, but to make even tying sutures (while sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bathtub) look beautiful is an entire art by itself.

“Yuuri,” Victor begins hesitantly, “are you still angry?”

“Furious,” Yuuri replied easily.  

Okay he’ll admit, he shouldn’t have gotten involved. He’s outside of his jurisdiction and he’s currently on suspension. He should’ve let the local Hunters take care of it, but he hadn’t sensed a team in the vicinity and a peletan loose in a population dense area is a recipe for disaster, especially since they’re a little less picky about what they eat. He’d gotten a good scratch from one of the spines on its tail for his trouble, but at least the kill had been successful.

“I get that you’ve been restless,” Yuuri says, his voice measured, “You’ve never had more than two days off in a row since you became an Exorcist.” He opens his mouth to say that that technically isn’t true, and Yuuri levels him with a Look, “Hospital stays don’t count.” Yuuri pulls the thread through and ties another knot, the glow slightly dims when the Stitch locks into place, “You weren’t even wearing any gear! If you’re going to be reckless, at least make sure you have some level of protection, or call for back-up or _something_.”

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” Victor murmurs.  

“I worry all the time, that’s nothing new,” Yuuri muttered.

Weren’t apologies supposed to make everything better? Smooth things over? It doesn’t look like anything he’ll say or do will help Yuuri be less angry and he doesn’t know how he’s so _bad_ at this.

When Yuuri ties off the last knot, the Wards turn a muted gray and the pain is slowly sapped from the wound. “Wow,” he turns his leg to inspect Yuuri’s work, “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“The Stitches will disappear in a day or two,” Yuuri tells him, starting to clean up the antiseptic and bloodied towels, “Try not to test their hardiness.”

Victor smiles sheepishly and snaps a salute, “Aye aye.”

Yuuri leaves the bathroom without so much as a smile and Victor sags, rubbing his forehead. He almost reaches for his phone to ask Mila what he should do, but then stops because she’ll think it’s hilarious and probably give him terrible advice.

He gingerly gets off the toilet and picks up his jeans with a pout. The bloodstains are turning an ugly brown color and the huge tear where the peletan’s tail-spike caught him is jagged. They look like they’re beyond repair, which is a shame because they make his ass look fantastic and he wore them to specifically to seduce Yuuri. But now that plan is completely shot to hell.

 _Great_ , he grumbles, _way to go Nikiforov_. He twists to give his thigh a cursory glance and ends up admiring Yuuri’s precise handiwork (again). He wonders how or when Yuuri learned to apply sutures – if it was because he had an experience that prompted learning it, or if he thought it would come in handy someday.

His boyfriend is in the kitchen carefully massaging dish soap into the bloodstained towels when he finally leaves the bathroom with his ruined jeans balled up in his hands.

“Yuuri,” he begins.

“Hmm?” Yuuri barely glances up, turning on the tap to rinse out the soap.

“Could you, perhaps, teach me Stitch Wards?” Victor asked, and Yuuri looks up this time, “I think it’s about time I learned them, since you keep saving me. I want to be able to do the same someday should something ever happen.” _and Heaven forbid it does._

Yuuri’s expression softens, “Of course.”

Three hours later and Victor can’t recall ever being this frustrated in his life.

“Okay okay. Show me again,” Victor urged, touching his two index fingers together.

“The trick is to keep the output steady,” Yuuri said, “You don’t want to overthink it.” Victor watches raptly while Yuuri draws his fingers apart and pulls a burning thread between them. He’s seen his boyfriend conjure gorgeous matrices and draw complicated rune sequences, and Victor’s having trouble making a string. This is the first time he’s ever been challenged when learning new techniques. It’s kind of thrilling…and horribly disheartening.

“I think I got it,” Victor said, his fingers throwing white sparks. This was his nineteenth – maybe twentieth or twenty-first? – attempt at this but the moment his fingers separated the thread would disappear. Circulating his magic throughout his own body wasn’t the problem – it was maintaining the circuit without his fingers actually touching that was proving to be difficult. He cursed when all he got was sparks instead of a string, making Yuuri giggle.

“How long did it take you to master this, again?” Victor asked.

“About two months,” Yuuri said, “Jade-sensei wouldn’t teach me anything else until I could get it right. I had bruises for a while, I kept exhausting every bit of magic I had. Not the healthiest way to learn but…”

“My Yuuri, so tenacious,” Victor said.

“Try it again,” Yuuri nodded to Victor’s hands.

He touches his index fingers together, focuses on the circuit and slowly starts to draw his fingers apart. He manages maybe two millimeters before the circuit breaks, and he lets out a frustrated sound.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri said, “You’ll get there. Just keep practicing.”

“How did you learn to apply stitches anyway?” Victor asked, “Was there a first-aid class for Exorcists at NABs?”

Yuuri chuckled, “No. I, uh, I dated a surgical resident. She would, um, practice a lot and I suggested she teach me as a study tool.”

“Wow,” Victor murmured, “No wonder you’re so good.”

“Not really,” Yuuri said, “if I had to use an actual needle and thread, I would’ve just taken you to the hospital.”

“Nonsense,” Victor waved him off, “Look, it’s as good as new.” he pulls down the pajama pants Yuuri loaned him to show off Yuuri’s handiwork, “See? I’d say my leg looks better than it did _before_.” Yuuri makes a funny noise before starting to chuckle. “I’m serious Yuuri. I don’t think the best surgeon at European Branch could do better-“

“Okay okay, I get it, just put your pants back on!” Yuuri laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demonology in the Lux 'verse:  
> Peletan comes from the word "pelt" or the Latin word for skin "pellis" while etan is an Old English word for "eat" or "to consume". Literally "to consume skin". Peletan demons are a lot more vicious than their corpse-eating cousin species since they have to work a little harder for their food. 
> 
> I'm weak for these two dorks taking care of each other, in case you couldn't tell. I hope y'all had a good Thanksgiving. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: T, y'know, for swearing  
> Warnings: disaster gays

_August 2019; St. Petersburg_

“What do you _mean_ you haven’t slept together?!”

“Say it louder why don’t you?” Victor deadpanned, “I don’t think they heard you all the way in Geneva.”

“Jesus _Christ_ Victor,” Mila said, pouring herself another shot of whiskey, “the way you two make googly eyes at each other, we all thought you started fucking _weeks_ ago, and now you’re telling me you two have barely made out.”

“There’s just no time,” Victor said, “during our suspension, I thought…maybe? But, then Yuuri had to train for the reassessment,” he gives his glass a little swirl before draining it, “and then there was the Inquisition.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Mila muttered, and refills his glass, “So, what are you gonna do now?”

“What do you mean?” Victor gives her the side-eye.

“I’m talking about your plan to seduce him,” Mila rolled her eyes, “Are we talking flowers and candlelight? Or we could go with the Naked and Sad routine, that always seems to work.”

“I never should have told you about that,” Victor mutters sullenly around the lip of his glass. He’d come here to lament about the fight he’d had with Yuuri – _their first ever fight!_ – not to talk about his nonexistent sex life.

“It’s a great tactic,” Mila swept her bangs out of her eyes, “works for me every time.”

Victor snorted into his glass.

“So, Naked and Sad is out. Even though, I think if you just got naked he’d totally jump you. You wouldn’t even have to break out the puppy dog eyes,” Mila continued, and Victor laughed, “But maybe stick with flowers and candlelight. Y’know, for romantic purposes.”

He shrugs a shoulder, “I’m not too worried about it. If it happens it happens.”

Mila fixes him with a Look and snorts, “Yeah, sure.”

“What?” Victor protested, “I can be patient.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mila repeated, “when we’re on a job. But this? Gimme a break. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Victor pouted, “It’s not just about sex, you know.”

“Duh,” Mila snorted and rolled her eyes, “I know that, otherwise you’d have fucked and ducked already.” Victor makes a face at that and gestures to the bartender for another. Yuuri deserves more than that and always will.

“He’s too good for that,” Victor said, and picks up the drink that slides in front of him, “He’s too good for me.” Mila punched him in the arm and he nearly dropped his glass. “Hey!”

“I won’t have that,” Mila said, wagging a finger at him, “None of that self-deprecation bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Victor argued, “Yuuri’s so… _good_. He’s not like me, Mila. And I keep thinking that he’s going to wise up to that and realize he doesn’t want to be with me.” he thinks about that cell in solitary confinement that had just about become his permanent holding and how it’s a miracle that they hadn’t abused the law to keep him in there. He’s not all that eager to spend more time in prison…but maybe if he had he wouldn’t feel so guilty all the time for potentially corrupting the best thing that’s happened to him since finding Makkachin. Not to mention, Yuuri went to an actual university and got his Ph.D and he’s good at so many things. Meanwhile, here Victor is with his one talent: killing stuff and getting away with it.

Victor sighs and rests his forehead on the bar, “He probably thinks I’m an idiot. He’s so smart-“

“Don’t you think you should be having this conversation with, y’know, your boyfriend? And besides, you gotta give him more credit than that,” Mila sighed and refilled her glass, “I don’t think he’d be here if he gave a shit about your alleged past.”

Mila’s right, of course, he should be talking this out with Yuuri. Even though they just fought because Victor _can’t stop screwing up_ ("Why can’t you just…talk to me?”).

He’s so _awful_ at this. Again, bringing him back to his one-trick-pony argument.

“I’m not good at this,” Victor says quietly, “I…I’m making him unhappy.”

Mila sighs, “Give me a fucking break. No one is good at relationships, dumbass. You know why? Because every relationship is _different_. People are different. There’s no formula or magic number, you sit your ass down and you talk things out like fucking adults.”

“That sounds hard,” Victor mumbles.

“Yeah?” Mila snorts, “That’s because it is.” He watches her slam back another shot of fire whiskey and then angrily pour herself another. Gods, he’s such a terrible friend if he’s only just now realizing that his best friend is upset.

“Did you have a fight with Jade?” he tentatively asked.

“No,” Mila says miserably, “she doesn’t even know I like her because I’m _stupid_.” And then Mila bursts into tears and Victor pats her awkwardly on the shoulder as she ugly cries on the bar. “She’s so _hot_ ,” Mila sobs, “it makes me sad.”

Victor _totally_ gets it. Last week he peeked into the studio where Yuuri was practicing his spins and almost cried himself. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too,” Mila sniffles. Victor discreetly conjures some tissues and helps her dry her face.

Eventually though, the bartender gives the last call and it’s time to stumble home. He and Mila part ways at the bridge – she turns left and he goes straight on. His hands shake as he gets nearer to the apartment, wondering if Yuuri’s left or…

 _One step at a time_ , he tells himself.

 _Communicate like a fucking adult_ , the Mila-voice in his head snaps.

He puts his key in the lock and breathes out a tremulous sigh when he sees that the lights are off – save the flickering of the television. Yuuri is asleep on the couch, Makkachin curled up by his feet and Victor’s heart melts.

He turns off the TV, scoops up his boyfriend and takes him to bed.

“Hmm?” Yuuri mumbles.

“Shh, darling,” Victor soothes, “We can talk in the morning.”

He carefully sets Yuuri’s glasses on the bedside table and makes sure he’s properly tucked in before getting ready for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd forgotten I had this sitting on my hard drive. I need more of Mila and Victor being chaotic besties. 
> 
> Love you guys <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: G, I guess.  
> Warnings: brief depictions of suffocation and being buried alive

_June 1990; European Branch Headquarters - Geneva_

He pulls the laces tight, gripping them hard so they don’t loosen for a second when he secures each knot before giving his toes a test wiggle. He glances up and Mark – not quickly enough – looks away. Victor frowns and secures the laces on his other boot.

His first job with his first Unit and he can already see that this isn’t going to go well. No one dared say a word against Lilia when she introduced him, but he knew he wouldn’t be readily welcomed into the ranks. Nevermind that his APA scores had been higher than all of theirs combined, that he’d completed his so-called rehabilitation at that joke of an academy and (mostly) proved that he could function like a normal human being.

_Why am I doing this again?_

He stood with a little sigh and tightened his belt as much as it would go – it wouldn’t do for his trousers to fall off in the middle of a fight.

“Let’s go,” Captain Guerra barked.

Victor trailed behind the other members, fiddling with the thick canvas material of his sleeve and nearly made it to the door when Captain Guerra held out an arm to bar the exit, and glared down his nose at the young Hunter.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” Victor asked, blinking guilelessly. The captain narrowed his eyes, his lip curling in obvious disgust.

“One wrong move,” Guerra says, “you betray this team, and I’ll pull your guts out through your throat.”

“Wow,” Victor smiled, “I’d pay to see that.”

His captain does not look at all amused, turning on his heel with a snarl and walking out of the locker room.

Victor lets the smile fade, his fingers twitching at his sides while he watches Guerra walk away – all that bulk stuffed into more bulky canvas. He’s no stranger to bullies and he’s always been able to handle himself just fine…physically that is. He’s already starting to learn that an enemy with administrative power can fuck you over in more ways than just with their fists. 

_Why am I doing this again?_

On the other side of the Portal, his Unit are starting to break off into pairs. His eyes find Mark, but he keeps a respectful distance. He can feel Captain Guerra boring a last warning glare into the side of his head, but Victor refuses to acknowledge the brute instead following his assigned partner.

Their job – and Victor’s sure it’s his fault they got stuck with a shitty assignment – is to find a fourth entry point through the old catacombs. The Church of Vasra has their headquarters set up in an old condemned cathedral. Victor knows from the briefing that this particular cult has a fondness for stripping away the sacraments placed on blessed buildings and then summoning malevolent spirits on the desecrated altars.

Victor was bewildered to find that a few of his new Unit members were particularly upset by this. He’d never had much fondness for organized religion in general, but he was under the impression that magic practitioners were supposed to hate the Church.

_To each his own, I guess._

These particular catacombs weren’t built to withstand time and they’d been dug in a hurry – probably in some sort of rush to outmatch the famous ones in Paris. There are parts of the ground out in the courtyard that feel thin and fragile, and Victor is perfectly content to take advantage of that and make an opening for them to enter the burial chambers.

They steal inside like poorly dressed ninjas, leaving their hastily made entrance open just in case.

“ _Lucerna_.” The light is tiny, and he makes sure to keep it dim enough so it wouldn’t be discoverable, while making sure there’s enough light to see by, counting his steps as they start to walk in the general direction of the cathedral.

Mark is a stiff silent presence next to him, barely six inches between them without scraping the walls to keep from getting too close. Victor’s tempted to ask if he smells or something.

They walk for what feels like forever, though Victor knows it can’t have been more than half a mile. He comes to an abrupt stop, but Mark keeps walking until he grabs him.

“Don’t touch me,” Mark hissed, pulling away like he’d been burned.  

“Listen,” Victor breathed, head tilted towards the dirt ceiling. Mark glares at him but goes blessedly quiet.

It’s muffled but there’s the sound of fervent chanting, steadily rising in volume. There must be several feet of earth and foundation between him and the cult members in the church above, but he can feel the beginnings of the malevolence.

“The ritual's almost completed,” Victor whispered, “we have to stop them now.”

“We don’t know that,” Mark whispered back, “we have to wait for the signal-“

“There’s no time,” Victor snapped.

Mark patched into the comms, “Captain, we can hear them. They’re nearing the end of the summoning.”

Victor crept forward another two feet, opening up his senses and grimacing when he feels the malevolence steadily grow stronger.

 _Here_ , he reaches up above his head to press his palms flat to the ceiling. He can hear Guerra curse in his ear. 

“We’re moving in now,” Guerra snaps over the comms.

“Good,” Victor grunts. The recoil from his magic sends him flat to his back and he remembers to shut his eyes and mouth tightly barely in time before he’s buried under hundred-year-old grave dirt. He can hear the muffled screams of the cult members above and his lungs are starting to scream for oxygen. The malevolence fizzles and dies – the ritual interrupted just in time.

He blindly claws his way out, coughing and spitting and rubbing dirt out of his eyes, reaching for his little witchlight and willing it to grow a little brighter so he can survey the damage. He doesn’t immediately see Mark, except for a bit of leg underneath the pile of dirt.  

Victor briefly considers leaving him there as punishment for being such an asshole, but then he sighs and carefully picks his way over to grab him and pull him out.

“A little warning next time would be nice,” Mark wheezes after he finishes coughing.

“No time,” Victor shrugged, before turning and starting to climb up out of the hole he’d made. _Yep, should’ve just left him there._

The rest of the Unit are already inside the church when he pulls himself up and inside, taking in the shattered summoning matrix and the cult members in their tacky robes scattered about. He hears a grunt behind him as Mark clambers out of the hole and comes to stand next to him, “Uh…thanks. I guess.”

Victor gives him a surprised look, even more astonished to see that Mark is blushing.

 _Oh_. He schools his face, trying very hard not to smirk because his teammate has a soft spot for pretty things (Victor’s not blind, he knows what he looks like).

“No problem. We’re a team, now aren’t we?” Victor says cheerfully.

_Aww, look at us. Having a bonding moment._

“NIKIFOROV!”

Moment over.

Captain Guerra is standing by the busted doors to the church, meaty arms crossed over his barrel-like chest, “A word?”

“Yes Captain,” Victor said, remembering that he has to act like a respectable subordinate now even if the man threatened to kill him gruesomely.

“I’ll thank you to show some restraint next time, Agent,” Guerra says tightly, “You almost blew the entire church sky high.”

“Of course, Captain,” Victor said. Guerra’s eye twitched. “Am I dismissed, Captain?”

Guerra pointed back to the church and Victor did an about-face and walked back inside, allowing himself a smug little grin and conjuring several pairs of Suppression cuffs.

He’s a bit disappointed that he didn’t get to kill a demon but rubbing his abilities in that brute’s face and showing them all that they might actually need him is a bit more satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, I imagine the old HUNTER combat gear to be somewhat ugly and kind of bulky (before the nanofiber they wear in Ch.11 of LiT was developed) but even long haired Victor can rock it. 
> 
> Laters! <3


End file.
